All the King's Men
by Rowana Renee
Summary: The Trio return from separate missions to find D'Artagnan much different from the spirited young man they remember, and quickly realise that he and Planchet are sharing a dark secret. But when the facade comes crashing down and someone begins to unravel, will there still be time to mend what was broken? Are there some things that you can never come back from? No Slash


**Hello, Three Musketeers fandom! I'm back to plague you ^_^**

* * *

_~All the King's Men~_

_Prologue: The Meaning of Fear_

If anyone saw the hunched, stumbling figure that night, they never said a word.

It was a hot night, the air thick with wet fog. Plum, dark clouds rolled sluggishly overhead, and even the colour of the moon seemed washed out against the bleakness of the sky. There was a cloying sort of atmosphere, a sickly sweet taste to every breath, and a sticky, steamy sort of gloom that turned the night into a muggy darkness. Occasionally, a dry peal of thunder could be heard. It felt like a contraction, though the anticipated rain never seemed any closer to arriving, no matter how close to the edge of the storm it seemed to be.

Nobody really wanted to be out. They'd much rather be at home, sleeping in their beds and blissfully unaware of the heat for the duration of their rest, or better yet sipping cool water or wine. But still, there was nothing outright strange about seeing someone roaming the streets.

There were plenty of people awake and milling about, no matter how they wrinkled their noses in distaste. Some were vagrants who almost never went inside anyway; still more of them were guards out on patrol of some kind or another. A few held stalls in the market, and had risen, bleary and muttering darkly to themselves about what kind of day it was going to be, to prepare.

All of them, from the most sensible and stoic down the most ridiculous buffoon, could feel it. There was a subtle hollowness to the air, something like the near-tangible anticipation that hangs in the early mornings before long trips. But this was slightly different. There was something else, a keen sharpness that smelled of violence to those who bothered trying to put a name to it, and even when they found the name, they would never be able to describe _why_. But such things weren't discussed in the first place- they could all feel it, and they all knew they could all feel it.

Something was going to happen.

If anyone wanted to ask why the stumbler- probably a drunk, most of them figured- was wearing a cloak on a night like this, they didn't bother, only kept it to themselves- _probably a drunk_, most of them figured- and merely ignored him. As it was, he didn't stop to talk, only huddled in his cloak, shivering as if it were the middle of winter, and brushed past anyone who paused long enough to look, lurching onward to his destination.

_Rough hands holding him down._

_Voices._

_Saying things, saying terrible, terrible things._

_Doing worse._

_But what?_

_Didn't matter; it hurt._

_That's enough._

_No, no, not enough._

_Entirely too much._

_Why, though?_

_They already said._

_Teaching, teaching, teaching._

_They'll be angry if he forgets._

_They're teaching._

_And he must learn._

_Must learn and must show them he's learned._

_They don't care._

_Do it anyway._

_Laugh._

_Rough hands._

_All over._

_Voices, voices_

_words that burn his face to hear._

_Even Porthos would never say-_

_Oh god. Porthos._

_Aramis._

_Athos._

_Oh god_

_oh god_

_oh god._

_And then pain,_

_and that's it._

He's almost pulled it together by the time he reaches the door, the door that he recognises. The door that he's learned to associate with peace and safety and companionship and everything he needs the most right now. Not mother, not father, just...he chokes, his knees almost buckling under the sudden wave of dismay. Everything else has changed already, why not this too? A doubt crosses his mind for the first time since he decided that this is where he needs to be, a doubt that catches his shaking hand mere inches from the door before he can finally force it to meet the wood, his open palm pressing against the surface while his other hand remains tangled in the fabric of his cloak.

What if he looks inside and it's changed as well?

He sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes, bowing his head until he can feel the wood against his forehead. The breath seems to murmur in his throat, in his chest...it feels like his heart stops beating for a moment.

Another high, keening sound escapes him before he can stop it. He remembers that he's promised himself never to make that sound again, but he can't help it. He's hurt, he's in severe pain, he's lost and confused and shaking, hot and cold at the same time, and what if this has changed too?

The tremours shake his entire body as he finally pushes the door open, unwilling to open his eyes until he's stepped inside, now hugging himself for lack of anything else to hold onto. When he opens his eyes, relief nearly sends him to his knees before a sudden despair sends him there anyway. It's a silent fall, one that goes without being protested against. He doesn't want to stand any longer, and so he lets it happen.

Nobody's here to catch him.

He'd forgotten. They're away, all of them. Somewhere on missions without him, though they'd all attempted to get leave to bring him along. It would be silly, they all know, to send him as well when Athos' is a solo mission where he wouldn't be needed anyway, and Porthos and Aramis are together and more than capable of handling their task. He's needed here, he was told, and given a task of his own to deal with.

He took care of it quickly, reported back, and then headed home. On the way there...

On the way there.

He chokes again.

It doesn't matter. He's alone. It's devastating and he doesn't know why. It isn't as if he ever intended to tell them, but he's alone and will be alone and-

He whimpers softly, still shivering, still sweating but unwilling to take off his cloak. It's terribly important that it stays on, although he isn't sure why it's so important because red won't show up on black, and blood can't very well soak through leather. As long as he leaves his jacket on, nobody will see, and he's alone anyway so nobody can see. But he would happily wrap himself in every blanket he can find right now.

The tops of his boots are crusted with it, though. He can still feel it, sticky where it ran down and pooled. It's a horrible feeling, drying blood, and he wants it gone but can't take his boots off because someone might see, even though he's alone and that's impossible, and he'd rather die than have anyone else _see_.

But he can feel it. He's covered in it, and his skin is crawling. It's as if he's covered in a layer of filth and he desperately wants it off, but he's frozen.

_He can hear them as they leave.  
Laughing.  
They think it's funny.  
They think it's ironic.  
Their laughter echoes.  
He tries it, wondering if they're right._

Their laughter is sadistic, cruel, and vile.  
His laughter is manic, coming in sharp barks between sobs.  
They made him cry and it made them laugh.  
They were so happy.  
They sounded so angry, though.  
It was awful to make them angry.  
But making them happy was just as bad.  
They always laughed afterward, though, so he supposed there was no difference.

_One of the worst things was that he couldn't even ask them why.  
They'd already told him, long before he could ask.  
And if he couldn't even have that...  
He doesn't understand it.  
But it would have been a comfort-  
in the strangest of ways-  
to ask them why and have them not tell him.  
To wonder about it.  
To know that there couldn't have been any reason.  
But they had a reason, and they told him that reason.  
It didn't make any sense._

But it did, because they gave a reason.  
And now he wonders why they would do that.

One of them threw a coin at him as he watched them all leave.

He's been sitting there for an hour when he realises that he isn't alone. There's someone else, and it's all he can do not to shriek at the top of his lungs.

It would be rude. And he remembers what happens the last time he was rude.

Oh, he can never let that happen again...

But if he can't call for help, the only other thing is to _go_ for help. It isn't such a long way, but he wonders if just sitting here and vaguely understanding that he isn't completely alone wouldn't be better. He doesn't need that, though. Knowing he isn't alone doesn't wash off the blood he knows that he can't touch, doesn't tell him it'll be alright, and doesn't give him a face to look at, the first face in hours that isn't-

Stop.

No, no, he can't think about that.

He bites his lip in thought before he remembers it's already been bitten through, and his eyes widen as the wetness of fresh blood drips down his chin. He shouldn't touch it, he knows better, but his fingers are already there, ghosting over his torn, swollen mouth and feeling too much warmth there, a feverish heat that's almost as bad as the pulsing ache that he's spent the past hours learning to ignore.

Now it's been brought back to his attention, though, as the salt from his skin sets the wound burning all over again, the searing joining the dull throb.

He closes his eyes.

His eyelashes are still damp.

It seems like that was one of the things that made them laugh.

But he can't think about that.

He remembers crawling around the alley, hissing through clenched teeth as he tries to find each scattered article of clothing. They didn't want to tear anything. Didn't want anyone to know. Didn't want him to tell anyone because they didn't realise they'd gone too far and that there was no way on Earth he'd be able to hide something like this.

They had taken care not to bleed him to death, but he thinks that they didn't realise just how much worse they really made things.

When they thought he'd learned their lesson, they'd been gentle- the ones who hadn't meant anything personal by it and had really just been doing as they'd been told. They'd tried, even, to help him, but he'd railed against it. Knowing the ordeal was over, he'd wanted them away from him as quickly as possible.

What he hadn't been able to tell them was that it wasn't fair that they took him at that, didn't _force_ him to let them help. In their leaving when he screamed at them to, they left him to be the one to fix it himself, and he still finds that to be one of the most horrible parts of the whole thing, even if he's the one who bit them when they came too close.

He shudders convulsively, feeling sick.

The scrape of fabric over raw skin was so excruciating, the added heat from the leather creating one of the worst feelings he'd ever experienced, but now he realises that it's nothing compared to trying to get up again after he's finally had a moment, and not even the sort of moment that he's been waiting for.

He doesn't scream, though, only grits his teeth and holds onto the wall, pulling himself to his feet with muted gasps. He has to lever himself into the first step by pushing off of the wall. It makes him stumble and trip, but he doesn't care because it's the only way he'll be able to walk instead of just standing there.

_  
There's no way of knowing now.  
What order did things happen in?  
Someone holding him.  
But is that before or after everything else?  
Neither.  
It's during.  
And that's the worst thing of all._

No, no that's a lie.  
The worst is knowing that nobody knows,  
that nobody would care if they did know.  
And the ones who would care would never look at him again.  
That's one thing they told him that he believes.  
But the teaching...he's supposed to believe all of it.  
And he does, when they ask him.

He's willing to swear that he believes every word  
just to make them stop teaching.  


The boy stood nervously, unsure of what to do next. He'd been right- he wasn't alone- but the man he'd come to find was asleep, and that was almost just as bad. Wringing his hands, he looked around nervously, eyes never settling on one spot for very long, though they did search the sleeping man's face more than once. He was shaking so violently as he watched, even leaning against the doorway didn't steady him. The shaking was only partly attributed to pain, the other part would be...not fear, or maybe it was fear...he didn't know the name of what he was feeling anymore. Maybe he was feeling everything.

He could just go upstairs, but that was a relatively daunting prospect. He could barely walk as it was, let alone get up the stairs. Determined not to whimper, he looked at his shoes, looked at the wall, anything.

All he really wanted was a bath- desperately, desperately wanted a bath. But maybe that wasn't all. He knew already that it would be impossible to draw one up himself, if for no other reason than he wouldn't be able to carry one bucket of water in his present condition, let alone actually fill the washtub. It went beyond that, however. He needed someone to look at him who wasn't looking at him the way _they_ had, who wasn't thinking of...

He squirmed.

Maybe that was it. He just needed _someone_ in general.

Blinking rapidly, he finally sank unsteadily to his knees, awkwardly kneeling beside the man and finding himself unable to work up the nerve to move again afterward. This was where help was going to come from. Suddenly, he wanted it more than ever.

Someone to lie and say it was going to be alright.

Even if he could never be made to believe it, he wanted someone to at least try.

Taking a deep breath, he started to touch the man's shoulder, but pulled back at the last moment, curling his fingers uncertainly before lowering his hands back to his sides, only to bring them to his chest in the next second.

He finally opened his mouth, no sound coming at first beyond a faint whine. Shaking his head, he tried again, but his voice was hoarse and uneven, breaking over the words. This was the first he'd spoken since they'd left him. "P-planchet?" he felt heat rising to his face, shook his head again and forced himself to speak a little louder, "Planchet...Planchet _please_ wake up."

The servant was awake, albeit in a slight daze, from the second time his name was said. However, it was the more pronounced waver in the young voice, and the realisation that the boy was on the verge of tears he was clearly fighting very hard to hold back, that really work Planchet. He scrambled to sit up, facing the young Gascon with a frown of concern.

"'Tagnan?" he murmured sleepily, "y're back?" he rubbed his eyes, blinking slow and hard as he tried to shake off sleep. His eyes settled on D'artagnan's face, registered with slight horror what he saw there, and went as wide as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over him. "Bless you, sir," he yelped, "You're hurt!"

D'Artagnan flinched, recoiling as Planchet reached for him and looking away self-consciously. "Please," he said again, eyes burning, not entirely sure he was even talking to anyone but himself.

Planchet was already on his feet, heading inside before he realised that D'Artagnan was still kneeling. The beginnings of a frenzy creeping into his voice, Planchet shifted anxiously from one foot to the other. "What do you need? How bad is it, sir? Do you need a physician? What about some wine-"

D'Artagnan let his eyes drift slowly shut, only to open them again just as slowly. Planchet was talking quickly, loudly, his voice ringing in D'Artagnan's ears. The world was blurring, swirling around him, black clouds like snakes pressing in on him and becoming solid walls of hands that were reaching for him from every direction and...

"_Please_," he whispered, and by some miracle Planchet heard and fell silent, "Please can I just have a bath?"

Planchet's eyes locked onto his and D'Artagnan was the one to look away first, blushing deeply as the tears started to fall again. The servant didn't seem to mind, though, only nodded with a quiet, overly gentle, as if he already knew, "Right, sir," and made a terrible mistake, reaching for him and taking him by the arm, helping him to his feet.

D'Artagnan paled and, with a fearful yelp, reeled away from Planchet's well-meaning grasp. The man stared at him in confusion, and D'Artagnan's blood went cold as he realised he may have just made things worse. "I..." more tears, coming quickly now that he was speaking, "I h-hurt my arm," he said quickly, "I-it's very sore..."

Whether or not Planchet believed him, the servant led the way inside, still talking, and however painful the noise was, D'Aragnan had to confess that he was grateful for it.

Unsure if it would help his excuse or ruin it, he rubbed one arm, fingers practically clawing at the leather of his jacket. His eyes darted warily back and forth. It was dark, and he could still see the wall of hands, or almost see it, like it was lingering at the edges of his vision. But then Planchet was lighting a fire in the hearth, and he could actually hear what the man was saying.

"I'll get your bath drawn up," Planchet said with a rather cheerful smile for someone who had just been woken up by a bloody, crying boy at an ungodly hour, "And while you're waiting, you'd probably best sit down before you fall. You look dead on your feet-"

His voice faded out again, and D'Artagnan was fully aware of the fact that he was looking around, looking at everying, as if he'd never seen this place before. His eyes, he felt, were still too wide, and he knew that to anyone who looked at him it would be perfectly obvious that he was terrified. As much as this was the only place he wanted to be, he still wanted to flee as quickly as possible.

"-I don't think Athos will mind if you take his chair while he's gone, and I daresay you could do with some wine, _and_ there should be some cheese and bread that you can eat while you're waiting. It'll only be a moment-" Planchet, at last, paused for breath.

His stomach lurched and he thought his fingers would pierce the sleeve of his jacket if he held on any tighter.

He sank slowly into the chair, heart thudding in his chest and giving him the feeling of falling with every beat.

He wanted to call out, beg Planchet not to leave, but the servant had already hurried away to get the bath drawn up. Following wasn't an option. Now that he was sitting down- what felt like every nerve shrieking at him in agony for doing so- he knew that there would be no getting back up, that the short trip to the bath would be torturous.

Without Planchet in the room, though, he was left to huddle where he was, repeating lessons in his head against his will, cowering pathetically and sending nervous glances toward the flickering shadows cast by the fire, all the while wondering how this could have possibly happened.

_Against his will, all of it.  
Even the telling them to stop.  
He hadn't wanted to give them the satisfaction,  
but he'd given them that and more before it was done.  
Not given, really. Rather they'd taken what they'd wanted.  
Taken everything else just for spite._

All to teach a lesson.

He would never forget it now.  
They'd been merciless in their drilling.

At first, he hadn't understood.  
Teaching?  
Teaching what?  
What sort of lesson could be taught like that_?  
And then it made sense,  
everything they were saying,  
every horrible, unspeakable thing they'd done.  
In the end, they were excellent teachers._

What was he learning from this?  
Anything?  
Nothing?  
Everything?  
Everything that mattered..  
Well, out of everything that could matter afterward...

I'll teach you_ your place.  
I'll _teach you_ to talk back.  
I'll _teach you_ about defiance._

The things he couldn't repeat.

They had used so many words, so many phrases.

But there was only one thing they were really teaching.  
The rest was just what came as a result.  
He knew what they were teaching,  
and he made sure they knew he'd learned.

Not that it made any difference to them,  
but for the first time in his life, he really knew the meaning of fear.


End file.
